


Morning

by Crickette



Series: The Storm Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Crossover, Dom Sherlock, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Hedgehog of Doom, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kink Exploration, Kissing in the Rain, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Maths Kink, Mild S&M, Mutual Masturbation, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rain, Semi-Public Sex, So I made Mrs Turners married ones Harry and Draco, Thunder and Lightning, misuse of violin bows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crickette/pseuds/Crickette
Summary: Sherlock wakes up early one stormy morning and finds John standing at the open window in the rain. Exploration of more kinks they can share together.  *Please note* This is the Johnlock side of this series. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are only at the very end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KaraRenee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/gifts), [Lymphadei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/gifts).



> I dedicated this to my Johnlock muses. I absolute love this fandom as much as I do because I can share it with you both. You are both amazing writers, and I think everyone should go and read your work. It's a must. Do it!! Please? :)

 

 

 

***  
  
  


 

Sherlock opens his eyes and instantly knows the bed is empty of John. The scent of him lingers on the sheets and pillowcase. It reminds Sherlock of vanilla and sandalwood, even when John hasn’t showered or used the body wash that Sherlock gifted to him. (He had to replace that horrid stuff John used before. It made him smell like apple candy.)

 

He rises up on his elbows and scans the darkened room. The mantel clock that keeps perfect time in his mind palace tells Sherlock it’s 3:35 am. He sniffs the air and rolls over to place a hand on the empty spot where John should still be sleeping. The sheet is damp, and warm, the acrid aroma of sweat and fear make their way from his olfactory sense to his brain, and he processes what he knows: John has had a nightmare and is awake somewhere else in the flat. 

 

Sherlock knows that John wants to be alone, needs the quiet and solace to make sense of dream versus reality. What is Baker Street and what is Helmand province. However, he cannot leave this man alone, knowing that he is suffering. He pulls the covers back and stands, completely nude. The temperature in the flat is comfortable enough. John, who spent so much time in the desert, keeps it warmer than Sherlock likes. 

 

Sherlock raises his arms over his head. His body is transport, but he enjoys the reminder he gets when he stretches of what they did before they fell asleep. He feels the dull, delicious ache in his legs and lower back. 

 

John is the same way. He will gaze off into the distance and rub a small mark Sherlock has left, and then blush and look away when he realizes Sherlock has caught him. Sherlock’s mind palace has memories of last night laying around like photographs, he needs to file them into John’s wing. He pushes it away for later. 

 

First, he needs to find John. 

 

He listens carefully, and walks as silently as he can. He is not trying to sneak up on John; he wants to see him before he makes a noise to allow John to hear him properly. 

 

Sherlock is addicted to many things, and his biggest unchecked addiction at the moment is John Watson when he believes no one is watching. The candid John, whose face is an open book for Sherlock to read. The blue eyes that remind Sherlock of the sky as it meets the ocean, filled with thoughts that Sherlock can pick up like sapphires and exam later at will. 

 

Baker Street smells like tea, newspapers and them. Sherlock notices the scent of petrichor. He hears the sound of rain hitting the windows. There is something off about the beat of the rain on the glass. It’s almost a perfect 112 bpm on a metronome, but the pattern is incorrect. He frowns, trying to deduce why that is. He peers around the sliding kitchen door and understands immediately. 

 

The window is wide open to the rain. The sky above the buildings across the street lights up, and he can hear John’s soft voice. 

 

“One Piccadilly, two Piccadilly…” Thunder booms loudly. 

 

Lightning illuminates the sky again, and Sherlock realizes with a start that not only is John standing at an open window, but he is wearing nothing but black silk pants. Sherlock is sure they never looked that good on him. The fabric is soaking wet and currently hugging John’s magnificent thighs. Sherlock is so drawn to the sight that he stumbles over the kitchen chair and hisses. 

 

“Sherlock?” 

 

“Yes, of course. Why is this bloody chair right here?” He wants to scream at it; he didn’t get nearly enough mental footage of John standing in the dim lamplight looking like an otherworldly rain god. 

 

“Are you seriously asking me why we have a kitchen chair, located in the kitchen?” 

 

“John. Don’t be an idiot.” He can see John tilt his head and shake it slowly. “Nightmare?” He picks his way towards John, giving the coffee table wide berth to protect his remaining uninjured toes. 

 

“No, maybe. I think the rain woke me up. Or it was Mrs. Turner's married ones. They were a bit loud tonight.” 

 

John turns back to the open window and the rain. Sherlock can see drops of it covering his shoulders, little bubbles of water capturing the light of London. The smell of rain and earth is intoxicating when it mixes with John’s natural scent. 

 

He closes his eyes,  takes a deep breath, and imagines a new flower springing up in his Poisonous Plants Garden. Its petals are grey like the clouds outside. It smells of John, the sleepy sex they had after they got home from the case, and Sherlock. The flower blooms at night, opening up slowly to show the golden inside, the color of John’s hair. He makes a label for the pot. ‘ _ Fac ut ardeat cor meum _ .' It reminds him of Moriarty for a moment, but it's appropriate. John does  _ make his heart burn _ . 

 

“Why are you standing in the rain, John?” He is often puzzled by his lover. If there was no nightmare, then why stand in the freezing rain?

 

“You know how you asked me if I had any kinks beside Maths? I suppose you could say that rain is another.” He doesn’t hide his face from Sherlock. Instead, he looks up at the cloudy sky and closes his eyes. His hand is on the window, leaving a heated print, the outside cold versus the heat of John’s body. 

 

Sherlock had missed the maths kink and now this. 

 

“Any other kinks I should be aware of? I do have a well broken in riding crop if you’d like to experience it.” Sherlock is careful to hide the hint of his arousal at the idea of John, bent over the desk that was currently getting rained on, naked and wet, begging for another smack of his crop. Despite the chill in the room, he is instantly hard. His cock aches at the suddenness of it. 

 

John turns and looks at him. His face is serious; his brow has three lines across it. Sherlock knows that he has John’s complete focused attention. The focus of a man who could kill someone a building away through glass with a handgun. John has better than average night vision, and he can see Sherlock completely. Sherlock stands still and fights the urge to hide. 

 

“Get it.” John’s voice is a challenge mixed with a promise. 

 

“John.” 

 

It’s the only thing Sherlock can think to say. His mind palace has shut its doors as if to say, ‘ _ You’re on your own, mate. Good luck _ .’ He has no data for what he’s currently feeling. It's lust and passion. It's overwhelming. And his brain, so much like a supercomputer, can not handle the heat of the connections. Everything wants to melt. He needs to reboot it all in safe mode and watch it detached so he can understand it. 

 

“Go. Get. Your. Riding. Crop.” John’s staccato command makes Sherlock’s brain stutter. However, this isn’t John’s game. Sherlock polices his features. 

 

“Why don’t you get it, John? You know where I keep it.” Sherlock’s voice remains low, but steady. He carefully hides the arousal in his even baritone; the lust that is coursing through his blood, making his skin feel too tight. His prick is throbbing, but they’re both still, gazes locked, too stubborn to look away. 

 

John pushes his shoulders back and rotates his neck. He looks like a fighter who is about to climb into the ring. Sherlock almost holds his breath, he has never beheld a more magnificent sight. A soaking wet, almost completely naked John Watson, getting ready for battle. A small part of Sherlock desires to fall to his knees at the Captain’s feet. 

 

But not  _ tonight _ . 

 

John issues a strained challenge. “Make me.  _ Earn _ my submission.” 

 

Something inside of Sherlock snaps and he lunges towards John. He slides his hand up the wet slope of John’s neck. He’s not hiding his lust, the way his erection is fighting gravity or the heaviness in his testicles. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I don’t have to earn anything. You’re going to give it to me.” Sherlock’s hand grips the back of John’s neck holding him in place. 

 

He notices out of the corner of his eye that the surface of the desk is empty. John has already removed anything that could be damaged by the rain; his violin has been put away. 

 

“You wanted to stand here in the rain, and you hoped I’d wake up. You set the stage for this fantasy.” 

 

Sherlock avoids touching John anywhere else as he lets go to get closer to the window. He knows that John is watching him with those hunter eyes that are a crack shot. He follows a rivulet of water as it travels down John’s chest with just the tip of a long slender finger. John’s chest feels so cold compared to the melting heat of his own flesh. Sherlock imagines the trail of heat he’s leaving behind and leaves that for an experiment he will conduct another day. 

 

“Those pants look amazing clinging to your thighs.” He lowers his fingertips to glide over the wet material, remembers a small tear that happened once while on a case. He pulls, and the fabric tears with a wet purr. John jumps back and looks down. The material has split, and he’s almost completely exposed. 

 

“Sherlock....” 

 

“Shh. I like them better this way.”

 

Sherlock tugs again, the silk ripping smoothly. He stops and carefully steps around John, so he is standing behind him. He wraps his arms around John's chest, watching as his hands slide in the rain water. The palms of his large hands feel so blindingly hot compared to how cold John’s skin is. He can feel the goosebumps form along John's back and arms.

 

“I think as much as you enjoy the rain, you like standing here like this. Anyone could look up and see you. Do you want to go downstairs John, into Mrs. Hudson’s garden? I can take you in the wet grass. You aren’t as tan as you used to be. I am sure that our skin would be a beacon for anyone looking outside.” 

 

He pushes John’s pants down, the silk sticking to his wet skin. It’s not easy, and Sherlock loses his patience and pulls them off, ripping them further. John moans loudly, biting his lip to stop the noise from escaping. 

 

“No, John. I want you loud.” Sherlock brings his hand up to John's mouth and pulls his lip free. “Turn around and kneel.” He’s not sure if John will do it, but he does, his blue eyes large in his face. They look glassy in the little light from the streetlamps. “My cock is cold, and I want you to warm it. Open your mouth.” 

 

John obeys immediately. Sherlock wraps his hand around the base of his cock and gives it a firm stroke. His foreskin has retracted and most of his glans is showing. John’s breath feels like steam as it ghosts over the slick crown. The sensation threatens to overwhelm him, but he guides it into John’s mouth. 

 

“What do you think the angle is, John? Can you estimate the angle my cock is fucking your mouth right now?” Sherlock keeps his voice low, belying how lust addled his brain is. He raises one eyebrow in mock seriousness. 

 

John moans around him and sucks harder, his hands on Sherlock’s thighs to steady himself. His pointer finger twitches, tap-tap-tapping. 

 

“Are you trying to answer my question, John? If you can do any form of mathematics while my prick is in your mouth, then I’m not sure I’m doing this correctly.” He slides his hand through John's hair. It’s wet and slippery with rain. He grabs a handful and yanks John to him. 

 

Sherlock watches John for any sign of discomfort and observes nothing but excitement. In the dim light, he can still see that John’s eyes are dilated, and he can count the beats of his heart as they jump at his throat. John jerks his head back, so Sherlock pulls him in and pushes his cock in deeper. He can feel the tip of his erection pressing the back of John’s throat. He shudders. 

 

Sherlock memorizes every detail for later. He wants to remember exactly how John’s mouth looks stretched around the girth of his shaft.  Sherlock can’t stop himself, and he tugs John’s hair sharply, forcing John to take the last few inches. John, of course, surprises him by holding himself there, looking up at him. Sherlock sees nothing but lust in those glassy eyes. His own and John’s are reflecting back at him. 

 

“Enough,” he grits out. His voice feels thick as it leaves his mouth. He pulls John off his cock forcibly. “Stand up. Brace your hands on either side of the open window.” 

 

The rain that had been tapering off surges back and Sherlock is glad. He watches John stand, his legs unsteady. He follows Sherlock's commands and puts his hands on the glass. Sherlock can hear the sound of rain thumping against John's chest and thighs, John whines as the icy water hits his erection. 

 

“Do you think anyone is watching, John?” Sherlock whispers the words next to John’s ear. The raindrops that hit him feel cold on his hot skin. He kisses softly down John’s neck, to his scarred shoulder. He memorizes the way the rain and London smell mixed with John’s scent 

 

“The man who lives directly across the street has insomnia. I often see him standing at his window, watching me as I play my violin. He could see you right now, standing here waiting for my permission to come.” 

 

John shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock shushes him. 

 

“No, John. No talking.” Sherlock taps his index finger against John’s lips. He pulls away from him, leaving him standing in the rain, and he takes his violin bow off the bookcase. 

 

He swings the bow swiftly, making it whisper as it cuts through the air.

 

John shakes his head, “Sherlock, you can’t use your bow for this.” 

 

Sherlock crowds closer to John and presses two fingertips to his mouth. “I told you, no talking. Why would I not use this? Each strike across your skin will be my signature. I will play you as if you are my violin and your moans of pleasure will be my greatest musical achievement.” 

 

Sherlock watches John’s reactions to the noise and the feeling of the wind that brushes against his back. He watches as John shifts his weight, the muscles in his legs flexing. 

 

“Do you have a safe word, John?” He traces John’s spine with the tip of the bow. 

 

John clears his throat. 

 

“Um. Ribulosebisphosphatecarboxylaseoxygen?” He giggles. Sherlock brings the bow down against John’s hip, not hard enough to leave a mark, merely to get John’s attention. 

 

“That was a warning, John. Try again.” Sherlock sketches patterns with the bow tip across John’s back. The wooden tip leaves red lines in its wake. He wonders if he could map out the London underground from memory using just this and John’s smooth lightly golden back. He quickly files it for another day and perhaps one of their washable markers. 

 

“Axiomatic.” John’s mouth lifts for a moment in a smile, but he quickly straightens it back into a line. 

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrow, allowing a smile to spread across his face. He expected a maths term, but that one could be a Deductive Theory as well. 

 

“Good. Say it at any time, and I will stop.” Sherlock places his left hand on John’s spine. The tips of his fingers almost touch the nape of his neck. 

 

“Don’t move.” He speaks low, his voice rumbling from his chest. Keeping his hand on John’s wet skin, he strikes John’s arse and upper thighs carefully with the bow. He must observe John’s enjoyment before he uses more force. 

 

He feels the tension in John’s shoulders, hears the way his breathing speeds up as he begins to pant. Sherlock uses more pressure, the bow hissing with his blow. Always careful to keep the screw and frog in his hand, to not really hurt his John. 

 

Red welts form across the creamy skin of John’s muscled arse. The colour compliments the light smattering of tawny hairs. 

 

Sherlock glances away from John’s body, at the sky, the rain still falling at a steady pace. He tosses the bow to his chair and wraps his arms around John. 

 

The heat radiating off of John’s arse feels amazing against his cock. He thrusts against John’s crack, his cock moving easily in the rain and sweat. His hands stroke across the plains of John’s chest. 

 

“How many times did I hit you, John?”

 

“22 times.” John’s voice rasps. He licks his lips and tilts his head back against Sherlock's shoulder. 

 

“I knew you would count. Very good, John. Now, I want you to push back against my cock. I love your arse, John and I want to cover all these stripes with my come.” 

 

John presses back, and rolls his hips. Sherlock holds him tighter, dizzy from the sharp pleasure shooting up and down his nervous system. It’s catching all his nerves on fire. It borders on painful. He can almost believe his fingertips will crackle with the electric hum of his  concupiscence . He can feel this testicles draw up closer to his body. All of his senses are online and collecting everything. His brain is working so fast the usual noise is gone, the silence is punctuated with their mingled pants and grunts. 

 

“Touch your cock. I want to see those meticulous surgeon hands wrapped around your shaft.” 

 

It takes a moment for John to obey. “Fuck, Sherlock.” 

 

“I’m memorizing the detail of how your hands look wrapped around your cock, John. How drenched you are standing here in the rain. I’m going to use this moment to climax when you go to work and leave me here bored.” He pushes against John harder, his orgasm building quickly from the base of his spine. 

 

“Please, Sherlock. Please...” 

 

“Come for me, John. Right this moment.” Sherlock tightens his arms, hugging John, watching as John comes. He holds up his lover as John’s orgasms erupts through him. John’s right arm reaches up and back, grabbing at Sherlock’s neck for support. 

 

Sherlock can see the way John’s cock pulses. He has a fleeting thought that he has never seen John ejactulate this hard, but that is eclipsed by the bitter odor of John’s pleasure mixing with the rain. Coupled with John’s moan, it pushes Sherlock over the brink. The detective’s famous brain is rendered silent. The sounds John makes start small, almost like a keen, but grow as John’s orgasm finishes. 

 

John’s usually not a very vocal man; all soft moans and spoken whispers. This morning, he cries out, loud enough that Sherlock feels a passing concern someone might wake up and report them. That thought just spurs him on, and Sherlock explodes against the small of John’s back. 

 

They both stand there silent for a moment, letting their heart rates slow and their breathing  return to normal.  

 

“Shower. I’ll clean up the water.” Sherlock kisses John’s neck. “Don’t argue. I’ll join you in a moment. Then I’ll rub some oil on this red bum.” 

 

“I can’t believe you said bum.” John laughs, turning around and kissing Sherlock. He playfully pulls his bottom lip with his teeth. 

 

“That orgasm caused brain damage. If we do this again, I may be as dull as Anderson.” Sherlock tugs John into a hug. “You’re freezing. Go shower.” 

 

“I wasn’t cold a moment ago.” His bottom lip quivers as he shudders. 

 

Sherlock pushes the other man towards the loo. He follows to grab an extra towel for the floor and to watch his lover’s perfectly sculpted arse. The welts that lay across John’s cheeks glow in the dim light of the flat. Sherlock makes sure to take mental shots of them. John doesn’t turn on the light when he enters the loo. A habit he acquired waking from nightmares. Sherlock hears the rusty pipes fill with water as John turns the shower on. He grabs a towel and leaves two on the sink for their use. 

 

Sherlock struts back to the window. He would never do something so pedestrian in front of anyone else, but tonight he enjoys the languid movement of his transport. He peers out of the open window and observes the quiet street. He cannot stop the smirk that forms as he notices the CCTV camera pointed at him. He doesn’t hide his nakedness. He calmly closes the window, leaving the drapes open. Sherlock throws the towel down to dry up the mess. 

  
  


***

  
  
  


The loo is still semi dark, just enough light filters through the small frosted window. John is singing to himself off key. Sherlock wants to join John before the hot water is gone. He really doesn’t want to miss the sensation of touching a warm, wet, pliable John Watson. He leaves the light off and closes the door to keep the heat inside. Sherlock feels so chilled that the steam is like lava meeting the ocean. 

 

He rustles the shower curtain carefully, trying to keep as much of the splash contained. “Is the whole song about picking up pieces?” Sherlock steps behind John, and straightens the curtain closed again. 

 

“Yes, it’s by Paul Weller.” John shimmies over to give Sherlock access to the hot water. 

 

Sherlock hisses at the sensation of it sluicing off his skin.

 

“I don’t know who that is.” Sherlock closes his eyes as John crowds closer to him. He lays his soapy hands on Sherlock’s chest and rubs his body wash over his skin. He loves that John is using his own soap. Sherlock wants to smell John everywhere on his body. 

 

John blocks the spray for a moment to kiss Sherlock. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s have a kip and then go for breakfast at Speedy’s, yeah?” 

 

“I don’t require sleep.” Sherlock can’t stifle the yawn that escapes. 

 

“Then just lay with me while I sleep.” John kisses the scar on Sherlock’s chest. John’s body is pressed against his and he enjoys the tingling trail that John’s leg hairs leave against his. John works the soap into Sherlock’s back, his hands sliding down to cup his arse. 

 

“If I must.” Sherlock exhales a deep, contented sigh as he revels in John’s touch.  

 

“Turn around, love. I want to rinse your back.” John makes sure all the soap is off while Sherlock rests his head against tile. Nimble doctor hands trace the small freckles and scars that cover Sherlock's back. The scars always make John sad. Sherlock turns before John slips into his thoughts. 

 

“My arse is stinging, I’m getting out.” John pulls back the curtain and climbs out. 

 

“Is your bum okay?” Sherlock worries his bottom lip with his teeth. He hopes that John enjoyed it as much as he did. This is a kink that he would like to explore again, perhaps delve deeper. Together. 

 

“You’re the consulting detective. Deduce me?” John smiles over his shoulder and Sherlock catches the hint of his laughter. “Maybe the crop sometime. And a pair of Greg's handcuffs?” 

 

Sherlock turns the water off and pulls the curtain back completely. John hands him a towel, but surprises him by drying Sherlock off with his own. Sherlock steps out of the stall and uses his towel to rub the water from John’s skin. 

 

“Or I can think of a hard maths problem and not let you come until you solve it.” 

 

“You’re an evil man, Sherlock. I love that about you, by the way.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

When John laughs, Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Sherlock opens his eyes and instantly knows he is covered by a slightly prickly John Watson. His doctor’s hair has dried sticking up all over the place. He hears the buzzing of his phone on the nightstand and reaches over to pick it up. 

 

“Sherlock, so help me… We’re getting breakfast, and you’re eating. No arguments. The Work can wait until after we have a decent meal.” John looks up at him, the lines across his forehead creased in a way that makes Sherlock think of an angry hedgehog. 

 

“Fine. Let’s get dressed and go down to Speedy’s.” He doesn’t inform John that his phone is turned on, but his brother’s text tone is vibrate so he doesn’t have to hear any smug ringtone. 

 

“Last one dressed has to pay.” John pushes him a little and then kicks off the duvet. The chill in the room reminds Sherlock of last night and he enjoys the rush of images that still require his attention and cataloging. He is going to spend a few hours today in his mind palace, making sure none of the erotic memories get lost. 

 

He lets John get a head start getting ready. He wants to pay for breakfast this morning. Sherlock wants John to eat and then come back and watch bad telly while he uses John as a human pillow and disappears into his head for a bit. 

 

John throws a pair of pants at him and pulls him from his thoughts. 

 

“C’mon, you git. I’m starving.” 

 

“Yes, I’m getting dressed now. This was an unfair challenge in the first place, John. It takes you no time to pull one of those formless jumpers on over your head.” Sherlock smiles as John leaves the room muttering. He ignores the pants John threw at him, gets up, and strolls into his walk-in closet for his purple dress shirt. Oh yes, and those trousers that are cut just so, that drive John to distraction. Perfect. 

  
  


***

  
  


Sherlock, finally dressed and wearing his Belstaff and gloves, stands on the sidewalk as John tugs the door to 221 closed by the knocker. Ahead of them, two men enter Speedy’s. One has almost white blond hair, carefully styled. The other’s is dark brown and messy. Beneath the sloppy fringe, his forehead sports a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

 

John and Sherlock follow the couple into Speedy’s. It’s not crowded, thanks to the rain. The air is chilly but fresh for London. 

 

Sherlock fidgets while they wait. The couple is looking over the menu and quietly discussing what they are each in the mood for. The blond man comes from money, and stands like someone with aristocratic breeding. Sherlock frowns. He knows of no one that fits the description of the man in front of them. His voice is British, but he was educated in Scotland. 

 

Everything the man wears is bespoke, but Sherlock doesn’t recognize the designer or tailor. He frowns as John’s hand snakes through his arm. The dark haired man pulls out a messy tangle of pounds and hands them to the cashier. 

 

Sherlock catches a word, “galleon”, the blond man is carrying only them. His mind goes straight to pirates and sailing ships, absolutely nothing that could be carried. 

 

They turn to find seating and the one with the scar smiles good-naturedly. He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

 

“Good morning. You’re John, aren’t you?” 

 

Sherlock focuses on him, unable to deduce a clear picture. His clothes are well cared for but not remotely bespoke. His t-shirt reads “Holyhead Harpies.” Sherlock makes a note to ask John if that was football or rugby.

 

“Er, yes.” John’s ears turn slightly pink. 

 

Clearly, John doesn’t recognize either of them. Perhaps they are fans of the blog? No, that doesn’t seem right. Neither man has the posture of someone who uses a computer regularly and since they’ve been inside of Speedy’s they haven’t checked or touched their pockets to reassure themselves they have their phones. John has checked his jacket four times and he himself has checked his twice. These men do not carry phones, they show no signs of doing so. 

 

“We rent from Mrs. Turner. Mrs. Hudson has told us all about you and your partner. I’m Harry. This is my husband, Draco.” Harry holds out his hand for John and smiles at Sherlock. 

 

“Oh yes, hello, nice to finally meet you. This is Sherlock.” John motions towards him with his hand. He and Draco nod curtly to each other. Sherlock murmurs a hello to Harry. John gets cross if he ignores people attempting to be polite. He’s distracted by the blond man’s name. It’s odd, even odder than Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock makes a note to look it up in the London census tables he has stored in his mind palace. 

 

The girl behind the counter clears her throat, signaling she’s ready to take their order. The couples break apart and Sherlock watches the other men take the table near the window and sit down. Draco removes his grey leather gloves and holds his palm up on the table. Harry lays his hand on top and they twine their fingers. They are very much in love. 

 

He looks for wedding rings and notices that Draco’s is an odd serpent, twisted around his ring finger. The Latin meaning of Draco draws his eyes back to the snake. Harry has a ring made of wood. Both are polished and gleaming in the pale sunlight from the window. 

 

“Wasn’t that a storm last night? I never thought it would stop raining. What can I get for you, Dr. Watson?” 

 

Her voice usually grates on Sherlock’s nerves, but this morning watching John blush fills him with a surge of warmth. It starts at the center of his chest and radiates out. Harry also blushes, and his husband smirks at him. 

 

“You can sit at your usual table, Dr. Watson, and I’ll bring it out to you.” She points to a table closer to the door, but also in front of the window. 

 

“Thank you, Cynthia. Come on, Sherlock, let's get a paper. Maybe there will be a nice murder for you to solve.” 

 

Sherlock follows John out to their usual spot. They both say goodbye as the other men leave with their meal. They hold hands as Harry carries the takeaway bags. Sherlock notices the rings once more and thinks fondly but nervously of the ring upstairs, hidden in his sock index. It’s been sitting there waiting for the perfect moment and maybe today is it.

 

The clouds over Baker Street move slowly, and the sun peeks out, trying to shine brighter. Sherlock’s phone vibrates and he plucks it from his coat pocket. 

 

**After last night, I’ve decided to disable the CCTV outside of Baker Street. Well done, brother. You win. -MH**

 

“Oh, John, it’s  _ Christmas _ !” 

 

Sherlock shows John the text. His smile can’t be contained. John reads it and a delightful blush flourishes on his cheeks. Sherlock can’t resist and kisses him quickly on his cheek. John giggles that giggle that drives Sherlock around the bend with the need to hear it again. His blogger picks up the paper and shakes it open, a mock scolding sound. 

 

They are British gentleman, and John can only tolerate so much exhibitionism in one day. Tonight is a different matter, however. Sherlock looks over at the CCTV camera that is no longer pointing anywhere near their flat. His mind whirls as nine different scenarios start to form. He dismisses three because where would he get John leather pants on such short notice? 

 

Sherlock pretends to check his email while laying out plans for tonight. His leg rubs against John’s under the table. 

 

“Anything interesting in the paper? Have the criminals of London finally stepped up their game to provide us with a challenge worthy of my keen intellect? Or will it be take away and crap telly tonight?” He thinks again of the thick gold band upstairs with its elegant example of the golden ratio carved on the front. Inside is engraved with sentiment. 

 

WSSH + JHW =  ∞

 

The girl sets their breakfast down on the table with a loud clatter and Sherlock comes back into the present. 

 

“There you are, love.” John smiles at him, and Sherlock can’t help but observe how relaxed and happy he is. The smiling brightening up his face. 

 

“Sorry, distracted.” Sherlock motions with his hand, waving his fingers towards his head. 

 

“As I was saying, I’m sorry but it seems it’s a quiet night at home tonight. Unless Greg has something for us. Criminals appear to be very dull today.” John’s finger tap over the front page of the paper. 

 

“Who is Greg?” 

 

“Seriously Sherlock? Your brother-in-law? Gregory Lestrade…” John takes a sip of his tea and pretends to frown at Sherlock. 

 

“Oh you mean Graham? Of course I know who he is.” Sherlock dumps sugar into his teacup, stopping when John makes that face he associates with having put too much in. “I think we should go to Angelo’s tonight then. I have an experiment I want to try and I need those garlic breadstick things he leaves on the table.” 

 

“Wow, two meals in one day? I think I can be persuaded to experiment with you.” John drags his calf across Sherlock’s. 

 

“Oh yes, you are inestimable to this experiment. I will require you to be there. Now, be quiet so I can think of all the variables.” 

 

Sherlock hears the huff of laughter that John makes as he tucks into his English breakfast. Suddenly, he makes up his mind that tonight will be the perfect time for his Golden Ratio. He eats his own breakfast, not really tasting it, too distracted with his evening’s plans. He looks out of the window and smiles at the bit of blue sky he can see atop  the building across from them. 

 

“It’s a beautiful day, yeah?” John is watching him fondly, the crinkles around his eyes filled with love. 

 

“Yes, it is. A perfect day I think.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything more. He just sips his tea and watches their little bit of London come to life. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Latin used in Sherlock's poisonous garden is translated as thus: Fac ut ardeat cor meum... "make my heart burn"
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> Hi! *waves* If you want to see a bunch of posts about Johnlock, Drarry, knitting and tombstones. Come by my Tumblr and check it out!
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> [Me on Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/misocrickette)


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